Ozzie, The Terrorist Kitty, Arrives

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A four-legged terrorist now inhabits our home.

It took a day or so to produce a name for the orange-striped rescue kitty that we took in from our veterinarian’s office, where he spent two long months recuperating from injuries so severe that they ought he might lose his leg. But an extended stay in close confinement allowed him to heal. When the call went out for anyone interested in adopting him, we quickly volunteered. Sadly, we lost Tater, our giant orange tabby, in February. We thought Olive, our other cat, would like the company. She has been morose since Tater died of cancer.

The new kitty went from living in a small kennel most of the day to having free rein over a 3,000-square-foot house. Within hours, he had taken charge, climbing up on counters, swiping at the chains hanging from the cuckoo clock, chasing both Mollie the Maltese and Gatsby the Cavapoo. She and Mollie chased each other around the house for a solid hour. Gatsby, a trained therapy dog with a gentle soul, allowed this tiny terrorist to ride herd upon his back.

Olive had nothing to do with this still-unnamed kitty. She hissed, fur rose up on her back, and retreated to one of the main closets – her preferred lair to lay low. My Beautiful Mystery Companion and I ran through a gamut of names for the kitten – Archie was close to the top for a while. The kitten remained unnamed for the first night, not that it bothered him a bit. He was having too much fun exploring all the house to care about his name. (I have long maintained that naming cats is about as useful as naming rocks but still indulge in the habit. I also tell the dogs “I’ll be back later” upon leaving, as if they understand me.)

Daughter Abbie, viewing the kitten on Face Time as he batted cat toys all over the living room, produced the fitting moniker: Ozzie. Though spelled differently, we named this bundle of bravado for the late Ozzy Osbourne, the so-called “Prince of Darkness” and lead singer for Black Sabbath. It fits.

Like all our critters, now totaling 11 both inside and out, Ozzie adores my BMC. He will purr contentedly in her lap for hours, until deciding it is time for another rampage throughout the house. I get up in the morning to find books knocked off shelves, knick-knacks strewn about after having been batted around by Ozzie, and other indications of a late-night rave.

For now, and maybe forever, Ozzie is strictly an indoor cat. He is fastidious about using a litter box. Olive goes out for a brief time each day because she never leaves our fenced backyard. Right now, if Ozzie went outside and a wild hair took hold, he might end up in Gilmer.

Ozzie quickly figured out Gatsby was a kindred spirit. They often sleep together on the couch. Mollie, the queen, alternates between engaging with Ozzie to snarling at him when he gets too rambunctious – which is often. He is just a baby after all, about five months old.

Olive has been a harder sell for Ozzie. But this kitten is persistent and fearless. He nimbly dodges Olive’s head swipes and comes back for more. I am uncertain they will ever be bosom buddies. Olive is doubtless still pining for Tater, who treated her like a little feline sister. We are pining for that big lug as well.

All said, Ozzie is fitting in quite well. We will see how he reacts when the two granddogs come to visit. It is rarely boring here at Three Geese Farm, both inside the house and outside as well.

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